Some of us do not function well in chaos
Some of us can function quite well
And some maintain the status quo

Some of us will rise above
Even as some will sink below
There will be hands to slap away

Even as there will be hands to hold
And as time will undoubtedly go
What, in the end, will be your story told

And so it begins, the greening of spring
On still as yet cold ground.  Shoots bursting
And unseen buds developing in hidden places.
The greening first begins in the sheltered spaces
Along the walls, in unnoticed corners.  Nursing
Its offspring that had clung to life, it is given wings.
The greening of spring now takes its annual flight.
Thus, soon this secret work will bring all delight.
Yes, how could I not extoll such an inspiring sight?

You make me ashamed
to ever write a line
and call it poetry.

Exquisitely, you drag
my heart from my chest
caress and replace,

Forever enhanced,
improved, and more pliable
at the experience.

Some rush to the train wreck
To seek a sick thrill
Others flee the train wreck
Afraid of what they might feel

Some rush to the train wreck
Not for the thrill,
Not afraid of what they feel
Because they genuinely care

About those in the train wreck

-inspired by Vianne Lior's Dove in Bloom

Somewhere between
Reality and reverie
I see, and it becomes

The birds bloom
And fly in flows
Pinions full-blown

I could scarcely paint
A more beautiful picture
As they with sinew

Strive to stay ground-free

Wrapped in a gossamer bag
Translucent and light
Shimmering with many threads

Finely woven together.
Your gold to my silver
Will forever hold our love.

Skyward skylark,
Fly.  Skyward go!  

Freedom's reality can be stark
As only you should know.

I wish that I could fly
Like a bird from this cage

To get that true feeling
That so very few have known.

Skyward skylark fly from night
Onward into the daylight;

Fly, hit the sky to break the seal
And let the day leak away.

The sky was a fabric of cloud cover.
The threadbare heaven was covered
In moth-ridden holes with frayed edges.
Stringy clouds, as if the loose openings,
With a ratty-tatty weave created a gauze
Of tangled threads.

Pretty lips on a pretty boy
But those pretty lips will
Never bring me any joy

Because his lips belong
To his pretty boy-toy
And it rankles me ‘cause

He used to be mine

(This poem is not autobiographical.  It is about someone I used to know.)

Inspired by a comment on Sabrina Benaim  

When you realize
What you didn't know,
You are well and truly
On your own.

You fight alone.

Self-awareness is
A lucid torment of
The cruelest part of anxiety,
Mental unrest.

I saw strange things in my dream last night.
A book read that "life is more random than we think.
And, yet it is not so random that we have no control."

A woman (she was random) said to me, "Nothing
In dis life be random."  I guess other than her.
There was a door randomly appearing leading out.

I took it and saw many random things strewn about.
I began picking each one up, turning them in my hand.
"There are so many random aspects to each", I marveled.

Life and sameness are just controlled random abstractions.

Night, crowded with a pale haze, a lavender mystery
Even darkness was grateful that the moon wasn't having it
As it beamed through low whispered wind and intrigue intermingling
Continue your deep slumber, uninterrupted by any queries or controversies
The last few lights go out as dreams are counted one by one, longings promised
Yet, unfulfilled and unfulfillable when the night sky has other plans for sleeping heads
The oldest secrets are explained in unknown languages in encrypted symbols held within a fog
Across galaxies streaming onwards from its origins into the present constellations of understanding
The moon and its mythology wrap the night around a soul that wants to hide among the warm lavender night

Water, the same color as the sky,
Completely filled the pools of light.

The rays of Sun are want to try
And push to break through the bright.

Yet, languidly our time we bide
Until the pools are full of night.

The scissors marched across her forehead;
When Mommy stuck her head in
Baby Girl said

"Not now Mommy. I'm cutting my hair."

And sure enough, the horror was true.
Baby Girl's hair lay there on the floor
In little tufts of such pretty curls.

A tear rolled down Mommy's cheeks like a tiny pearl.

Fleeting moments cannot be captured
Never really possessing true permanence
Haiku-like moments experienced
But never touched by hands
Mere reflected glints on a heart
Recalled within the poetry of a mind

Life is just uncertainty
Everything, a mess
The alternate thing is only death

Run your fingers through my hair
And rest
Answers are everywhere

Springs and spirals cling and climb.  
Ever upwards, ever onward day by day.
Greening our everyday lives along their way.

Love ignited flames, the torch threw
Sleep sweet, my Only - to rise anew
Faith & steady hope, I know to be true

But, my Only, I will be missing you
For my love, my Only, you died too soon
And I will wait, if need be, for an eternity

The poetry of life, like a big dog, sinks
It's teeth into you and shakes you.
Bitten to the bone you are infected.

He was secretly gay
I don’t care one way
Or the other.  Brother!

But he’s the one who
Set himself up as
The judge of morality

All the while he knew
He was completely past
Having to live in reality

All the boys and men
That power can control
At will are never set free.

It has been said that
A man will shape his tools
Then his tools will shape him.
It is true of male or female.
Necessity is the parent of invention,
Invention becomes the driving force,
The power to move forward towards
Life.

My oh my
Look at those pretty birds fly

But here am I
Stuck on the ground

Sigh

Help me to first see the blessing in all things.
Help me to show appreciation for even the smallest thing.
Help me to know the satisfying feeling of sincere gratitude.
Help me to rise above adversity and show true grace.
Help me to know the happiness of hidden good works.
Help me to know the bliss of helping when no other human is watching.
Help me to know the joy of giving in ways that no one else may see.
Help me to win over the dejected, the downtrodden with only a smile.
Help me to lift-up others, especially the depressed & the lonely.
Help me to smooth, sooth, and comfort the frazzled ends in others' lives.
Help to listen quietly more often even when I've heard it before.
Help me to find lost souls seeking to be found as they are ready to be.
Help me to be truly kind to each human and to all other creatures.
Help me to show that even the most lowly among us has value.
Help me to see beauty where others are repulsed by appearances.
Help me to always appreciate that there is amazing beauty in human diversity.
Help me to acknowledge and see the value of the cultures of this world.
Help me to not fear touching others, whether the heart or the hand.
Help me to do these things regardless of reward or acknowledgement.
-Sherlene

Buttoned into wrinkles
Of time and mind

Like a melody
On a tin whistle

A lingering sense
Of otherworldliness

Hardwired for folktales
Oral traditions filled

With mythical traditions
And practical wisdom

Time, like a whistled tune
Blown and gone, remains

Amidst haunting,
Faint memories

And your green isle

Ballerina clouds dance overhead
elephants, rabbits, pigs, and bears
Pirouetting here and there
with an alligator nipping at their heels.
When quickly appears giant hands that come
to gently clear them all away.
And the sun suddenly shows its face
as it comes out to play.

Written in 2014
(Dedicated to the memory of my Daddy, Dan A. Hacker, Jr.)
The heartbeat grows before we ever arrive;
Finally, the tires crunch on the briny soil as we pull in.
Daddy walks around and opens the door for me;
He is wearing his sliver aluminum hardhat;
I slide down the seat and clumsily out of the truck.
The heartbeat is overwhelming now,
Too loud for a human voice,
Provided anyone was inclined to speak;
Daddy is already checking gauges.
The smell of shell and oil and salt and gas
Blend into the cologne, it is the scent of my daddy.

Dropped from the same tree
Within the same orchard
The nuts soon cracked open
And out they popped
Dried and shriveled up
The fruitage which carries
The same DNA of the tree
The meat inside is rotten
Eating it is very bitter
And all who do eventually
Die from salacious lies.

Accepting the moment in which we find ourselves
Allow reason and meaning to regather as we turn away
From the unacceptable things we find we are sinking in
Reconnecting to the truthful, to the beautiful.
Aspects of goodness you saw once in others.  
Aspects you know are deeply embedded within you.

Reconnect to the good in others we know is there
To find some heart recover yours in the shining glow
Of love, of goodness, of that which you've known
Tarnish must be polished away from other heart
Cleanse own's own heart if we are to be of any use
Have the courage to live another day.  

Enjoy what you can as you can.
The healing will come from those regions
Which the core foundation remains and can never erode.
How did you learn to love?  Who initially gave you hope?
You did when you decided to love, to be loved, to reach higher.
Trust that a higher power unseen will guide and will lead.

Follow the breadcrumbs that you know were laid for you.

On the dry and empty ground
Covered in stubble brittle and bleached
Nothing exciting could have ever happened
In this barren place.
 
Yet, there, beneath them lay clues all around
Pointing to the ancient just within reach,
By an inquiring mind who goes out to seek.
They were men of that sort on bended knee.
 
The wastes between the Dead Sea
And beyond the Gulf of Aqaba pleaded,
"I am lost, come find me."
So, they unpacked their shovels, brushes & trowels,
At the foot of sandstone cliffs and started to dig.
 
Together with the Bedouins, the group slept on
A ground covered in their robes.  Strewn about lay
Piles of black ****, byproduct of copper smelting
Beckoning.  So, they ate the unleavened bread,
Just as did the freed Israelites who were fleeing Egypt. 
 
But then, of course.  Nothing ever happened here.

Experiencing love for the first time,
The heart constricts, the throat catches in a dry strangle,

Lightheaded, one grasps to breathe in the dense, thick air.
The full sensory of time and space constricts, pinpointed on the ‘THEM’!

And then you touch and evaporate into a mist of sensory overload.

Though we may suffer
We see not death.

Heart be cool, it is not yet.
Heart be cool, perfectly.

And heart, be calm continually.
We suffer, but not death, as yet.

A voice, as if afar, speaks
Sweetly to me, "So, be at rest."

For miles the white path
My nose and feet are too cold
Silent crisp air fills spaces

Listen to the slow blooming of these words
Unhurried in their ink soaking into paper,

Like flesh consuming and being consumed,
Like water drowning and being drowned.

They rush in, yet slowly are moving forward
Wrapping the brain in cellophane to smother.

It will decay and the rot will feed, be fed,
As the words and our brains grow anew.

She has a kind of magical thinking about her life.
She sees her name written across the sky, in stars,
In clouds, in sunbeams, written in the sunset.

She finds a penny, knows it was placed there, especially for her.

In her magical thinking, the universe is cheering her on,
Setting her up, leading her to somewhere she doesn't know.
In her magical thinking, she finds the delights and she goes. . .

A simple concrete step, a stoop; it is just a step, a stoop
Until it is associated with memories of sitting, watching,
                             and waiting.

Watching life as it parades past; neighbors, strangers, cars,
things that are blown about.

All become associated with that well-worn act, repeated with
                           religious devotion,

Of spending time on a simple neighborhood stoop.

Inspired by Bulletcookie and William J Donovan

Laborers and bees
Swarm in simple ignorance
Dancing in sun-dreams.
The owner's laugh
Among giant oak shades
Is very bitter.  He sniffs,
"A day off, is barely paid."
Striped to their waists,
Glistening in bright rays
They float like lovers in a bath
Wanting nothing but wages.

At times I'm consumed by oceans of words
And the many grains of the sands of notions.
All of which I desperately want to set in motion.

Other times, I might go to the water and it be dry.
But perish that I should sit and wonder why.
I dig like h-e-double-l letting dirt and sand fly!

Because you see, exploration makes one wise.
So, I'm not worried.   After all, hey,
Hakuna matata ends with a TA,

To be announced. . .

I happened upon a sad little birdie sitting in a tree.
"What's the matter little birdie?  You cry.  Why?"
"The notes in my throat are all caught." was the reply.

But said I, "Music is in your bones with every melody.
There's no song more important than the one you sing.  
And I can look through you and see.  Sing your songs for me."

And with love, patience, and encouragement, it began to sing.
Will you?

Love is
A river
That rages
In stages.
Wanting to be
Free it climbs
Its banks as if
Wanting to see
What is on
Each side.
So comes
Forth the poem
From just
One line
"Time is a river."

Your plane through pink clouds,
At sunrise, my sinking heart.
Heart breaking, you, departing.
Your plane through pink clouds
Departed, and the sky
And I am empty.

We,
The nest.
I, the twigs,
You the branch.
Our eggs safe
Nestled within.
Until the day
Our fledglings fly.
With open hands
We cheer them
upward.

“If only I had wings like a dove!
I would fly away and reside in safety.” Ps. 55:6
Yet, you see my struggles, hear my prayers,
For your mercies never end.

Like the stone that sank into Goliath’s head
Became the turning point of the battle
In the safety of your power, I reside,
For your mercies never end.

And even if my own father
and mother abandon me,
You, yourself, will take me in. Ps. 27:10
For your mercies never end.

As evening falls a cricket creaks
On the crisp crest of night alone
And waiting in the moonlight.
His heart listens.

My heart listens.
I hear a frog singing on the bank,
See the sunlight filtering down,

There are miracles all around.
Who needs mysticism in life?
For life is miraculous enough,
And therein lies the mystery.

A chance encounter.

So precious and fleeting is this brush of one life against another
that we may never realize the impact it has on our life or theirs.  

The impression is, nonetheless, left.
A chance encounter,

How fulfilling it can be when it is brought full circle.

My wounds were generally not self-inflicted.
Most represent lessons learned, many from people that I love, still.
Now that I am older, at times, I will locate the scars,
Seeking them out, reaching into uncomfortable regions
To feel the now smooth flesh-covering,
Wrinkles in the brain.

Ah, that stolen kiss. Motivated from the purest
Innocence, which turned to secret delight. Captured
On friendly lips. It was not your intent

To steal an electric moment. But, oh, the shock
Of fleshly desire. We could speak
Of it. Never.

I see the hint glinting in your eye
To repeat mistaken affection.
I will offer only my friendly face.

Watching you
My checks still flush bright red,
Fading into pink. Do you notice
When the vein at the base of my throat
Pulsates with excitement?
Or when my green eyes brighten
And glisten with love?
Do you see me anymore?

The heat of summer is heavy;
A spider has hung a dragline;
In it a lone leaf dangles and spins

Amidst the humid breeze.
A rattle and hum soon rise as insects  
Calls out, "Beware! Beware, as you fly!"

For a silky trap awaits the foolish
Or the absent-minded soul
Quickly caught unawares.

I want to transform you
Making you like new
Sparkling with a pink glow

Difficult things tainted you
Turned you almost blue
With a sickly pale

A bad smell clings
A smell of death
I want to make you live

But as the French say:
“Il n’y a pas plus sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre.” -
“There’s no one as deaf as the one who doesn’t want to listen.”

The Truth is often painful
Yet, truth is required.
We must face it head-on
For it cannot be denied.

When we look into an abyss
We see faces looking back.
Our humanity must accept
Some faces are long gone.

Our duty is to remember.